


It's All Downhill From Here

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 20:50:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9402404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: Captain Bellamy Blake of the Rebel Alliance has completed more than his fair share of extraction missions.But when rumours of an Empire weapon that wields an unprecedented power start to spread, he’s tasked to rescue and secure the aid of Clarke Griffin — the daughter of the Imperial engineer responsible for building the single greatest threat the Rebellion has ever faced.He expects all the things one usually comes to expect on a covert mission of this sort: danger, risks and scrapes, tight situations, and perhaps a near-death experience or two.What he doesn’t expect is for this one encounter to set him and Clarke on a path that leads to something so much bigger — including, perhaps, a chance at redemption for them both.A Bellarke Rogue One au.





	

**Author's Note:**

> after four agonising weeks spent convincing myself not to even bother _trying_ to write a bellarke Rogue One au, i finally caved.
> 
> this is the result.
> 
> (title from 'Pink + White' by Frank Ocean, which i listened to approximately ninety-two times while writing this)
> 
>  
> 
> you can find a gifset for this fic [here](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com/post/156142807286)

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Extraction Team Bravo Report:**

 

**_Extraction successful._ **

**_Target in custody._ **

**_En route back to base._ **

 

 

 

  
  
Captain Bellamy Blake doesn't doubt himself a lot.

 

The thing is, he's never really had much _time_ to do that. That's what happens when you're orphaned at age seven, with a baby sister in tow. That's what happens when you and your sister are taken in by the Rebellion, and get swept up in the ever-intensifying fight against the Empire.

 

That's what happens when you rise so quickly through the rebel ranks that you get your own ship by the age of twenty-one, along with the authority to run your own intelligence missions.

 

That's what happens when you lose your kid sister, barely two years later.

 

Nothing had hurt quite like that one. He'd imagined that one day, one of them might have ended up facing down the barrel of a stormtrooper's blaster.

 

He'd never imagined that it would be a proton landmine set by the extremists.

 

He'd never imagined that, out of the two of them, it would be _her_.

 

The lawless extremist group hadn't _meant_ to do it, either. She'd just got caught in the crossfire. Just another casualty of war.

 

That's the thing about war. You can't get caught up in the casualties. You can't waste what little time you have dwelling over things that can't be made right. Things that can't be saved.

 

What you do is this: You throw yourself into the cause, heart, mind, and soul, and pray to whatever gods you've long forgotten that it's enough to keep you from thinking about everything you've lost in this never-ending fight. And then you take your orders, and you put your life on whatever line your superiors tell you to, and you hope, deep, deep down in what's left of your soul, that the gods haven't forgotten you, too.

 

But right now, staring down at the girl with a head full of straggled blonde waves and a face smeared over with dirt, he's starting to doubt the certainty of his own personal safety — mostly because of the resentful, slightly feral glint in her piercing blue eyes.

 

"You're Clarke Griffin," he says. It's only a little bit accusatory. Then again, they don't exactly have the time for luxuries like social pleasantries.  

 

Her brow quirks slightly, but she remains otherwise stone-faced. "My name is Janae Timmin."

 

An alias. The one she's been hiding behind during her stay at the prison facility — the one he's just broken her out of.

 

"Jacinta Matin. Tatum O'Hara. Sarah Redding." He recites the short list blandly, moving to fold his arms over his chest as he surveys her. A display of steadfastness, rather than intimidation. "All the names you've taken over the last five years." He catches the slight narrowing of her gaze. "Surprised?"

 

Her brow lifts properly this time. "That you've actually done your homework?" she says rather than asks, sardonic. "Yes, actually. Considering that half-assed attempt at a prison break, I'm just shocked we've all made it out in one piece."

 

His mouth falls open. "Hey, we just _rescued_ you!"

 

She scoffs, crossing her arms as she leans back against the hull of the ship — mirroring him. "Some rescue. You managed to set off every alarm in the building _and_ the next. I don't even know if I'm more appalled, or impressed."

 

There's a very definite snort from the front of the ship, right where the cockpit is located.

 

"Shut up, Miller," he orders without sparing the culprit a glance.

 

"That was me, actually," the distinctly feminine voice of his co-pilot and mechanic calls back.

 

Resisting the urge to groan out loud, Bellamy shakes his head before chancing a glance at Clarke Griffin.

 

She definitely _doesn't_ look anymore impressed with her rescue team than she'd been ten seconds ago.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**YAVIN 4: Rebel Alliance Base**

 

It's a tough job getting Clarke Griffin on board with the mission, but General Kane proves to be more than tough enough to get it done.

 

Then again, Marcus Kane could probably convince a Toydarian to give up their own wings, if it came down to it. If the General weren't on the Rebellion's side, he would be a dangerous enemy, indeed.

 

Bellamy would say the same for Clarke Griffin — but for some reason, she appears to have planted her ( _very_ stubborn) flag firmly smack dab in the middle of no man's land. She guards it remarkably fiercely, too, for someone who claims to want no part in the ongoing fight. In anyone else's case, it would probably wouldn't make them any more or less dangerous to the rebels' cause.

 

In Clarke Griffin's case, he's not so sure.

 

Everyone else may be fooled by her standoffish demeanour, but he knows the truth. The ice in her eyes may serve to blind others for a moment, but he sees the wildfire in her heart.

 

Kane sees Clarke Griffin's refusal to pledge loyalty to either side as a blank slate, ready to be turned to the Alliance's advantage.

 

Bellamy sees it for what it is — a warning sign, plain and clear.

 

But the General wanted Jake Griffin's daughter on this mission.

 

So, Bellamy flew halfway across the Mid Rim to Wobani Labour Camp, and retrieved Clarke Griffin.

 

Over the years of fighting together against the Empire, General Kane and Bellamy have grown close. He was the first to advocate for Bellamy's promotion to the captaincy. He takes the time to explain his decisions and actions to Bellamy, where he might not spare a second thought to the instructions and commands he gives to his other subordinates. He'd stood behind Bellamy's selection of Raven Reyes for his mission team, despite the mechanic's crippled leg. Any other commanding officer would have insisted that Reyes stay benched.

 

The bottom line is this: Kane trusts Bellamy — and Bellamy trusts him.

 

Which is why Bellamy instantly goes on high alert when he's called from his ship for a short word with the General. One look at Kane's face probably wouldn't reveal much to the idle spectator, but Bellamy's seen that shuttered expression often enough to recognise the covert urgency hidden under the surface.

 

"The prime directive remains the same," Kane says, an undercurrent of terseness to his tone. "Get a meeting with Thelonious Jaha. Authenticate the defectors' story regarding this rumoured planet killer. Find Jake Griffin." He leans in, the movement so subtle it would have been imperceptible to the casual observer. "But _do not_ extract. Understand? You find him, and you kill him."

 

A pang of shock streaks through Bellamy, but he makes sure to keep his expression neutral. He doesn't need to ask; he knows without a doubt that these instructions are for his ears only. It wouldn't do to show his surprise now — nor his dismay, he realises with a small start.

 

"No extraction?" he repeats carefully.

 

Kane shakes his head. "Jake Griffin is the key to the construction of this rumoured planet killer. Even if the rumours prove to be false, I have no doubt that he will be at the heart of some other Imperial machination for mass destruction." Kane pauses, draws a small breath, and looks Bellamy in the eye. "One death is worth the salvation of countless other lives."

 

Bellamy nods, the movement almost robotic even as his mind races. "Yes, sir."

 

Kane claps a hand to his shoulder, fingers clamping down in a bracing grip. "Good man," he says. And then the mask of composure slips from his face, concern seeping through the carefully poised facade of confidence. "May the Force be with you."

 

 

 

 

"She took a blaster," Raven reports the second he steps back into the ship. She cranes her head around from the co-pilot's seat, her ponytail swishing over her shoulders as one brow cocks upwards. "She took _your_ blaster."

 

"Tattletale," Clarke mutters, but she meets his gaze head-on, chin jutting out defiantly as if daring him to comment on the theft of an item just recently under _his own_ possession.

 

"Ha, ha," he says flatly, hands on his hips. "Give it back."

 

She stares at him, but there's no surprise to it. "We're shipping out to _Jedha_ here. In case you missed it, that's a fucking _war zone_. You're _seriously_ gonna leave me defenseless?"

 

"She's got a point," Miller remarks as he enters the ship, dumping the last pack of their supplies with the rest of the cargo.

 

" _Thank you_ , Miller," Bellamy grits out, making sure to leave out any traces of gratitude in his hard tone.

 

The other man merely shrugs, before turning his back to rummage through a small stack of ration crates.

 

Clarke folds her arms over her middle, defensive. " _You_ dragged me into this fight. _You_ want me to put _my_ life on the line, just so _you_ can get an audience with Thelonious Jaha."

 

" _I'm_ not the one who just might shoot me _and_ my crew in the back," he retorts.

 

She shrugs, and it's easily the most aggressive display of nonchalance Bellamy has ever witnessed in his life.

 

"I guess you're just going to have to trust me, then." She cocks her head, deliberate. " _Kind_ of like I've got no choice here but to trust _you_. Funny, isn't it?"

 

Somehow, he doesn't feel like laughing.

 

 

 

 

"You let her keep it," Raven says when he settles in the pilot's seat. Her tone straddles that murky line between observational and skeptical.

 

He makes an offhand grunt, busying himself with flicking switches and checking levels to avoid looking at her. "We have bigger things to worry about. Like what's going to happen when Thelonious Jaha actually lays eyes on her."

 

He can feel his co-pilot's eyes on him, her calculating gaze weighing heavy on the side of his face. "Do you think he's actually going to try and kill her?"

 

He huffs a harsh laugh. "More like the other way round."

 

Jaha's reputation precedes the man for a reason, but something tells Bellamy that the infamous extremist leader isn't the wildest card in the equation at hand. Bellamy's known Clarke Griffin all of twenty-four hours, but there's something unsettlingly _dark_ to her — something that's just been setting off every warning bell in his brain ever since the blackened brown of his eyes had first clashed with the sharp blue of hers.

 

Raven hums, thoughtful. "I don't think she'd do that."

 

"Oh, really?" he scoffs, glancing at her. "What makes you think that?"

 

Raven shrugs, her expression melting back into one of prosaic calm as she leans over to key in their coordinates. "You let her keep it."

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

  

**JEDHA**

 

He's feeling a lot less confident in his decision by the time they're off the ship, the cluster of low buildings that make up Jedha City sitting just a few hundred feet off in the near distance.

 

It's one thing to be in the company of an armed Clarke Griffin with Miller and Reyes around, their physical presences carrying the reassuring promise of backup. It's another thing _entirely_ to be wandering a strange city _alone_ with aforementioned armed Clarke Griffin. He even briefly entertains the thought of changing their plans last minute, to have Miller stick with them as they enter the city.

 

One look at the Imperial Star Destroyer hovering right above Jedha, massive and menacing, is all the encouragement he needs to perish the thought. Clearly, they don't have nearly as much time on their side as they'd expected.

 

"That's new," Miller observes, a hint of dryness lacing his grim tone.

 

Bellamy spares the Destroyer one last wary glance before returning his attention to the task at hand. "Remember, alleys and side paths only," he says to Miller as they check their weapons. "Avoid open areas as best as you can."

 

"Not my first reek rodeo, Cap," Miller quips mildly, but he salutes in acknowledgement anyway.

 

Bellamy glances at Clarke Griffin, just in time to see her eyeing Miller as he checks his comlink, flicking a couple buttons to adjust the settings. "No comms for me?"

 

He blinks, a little thrown by the fact that she hadn't needed to look at him to notice him looking at her.

 

Recovering quickly, he shakes his head. "No need. You're with me." He stows his blaster inside his jacket, levelling her with a warning look. " _Don't_ get any ideas."

 

Her gaze swivels to him. "Are you implying that I'm planning to run off?"

 

"I'm not implying that you're _not_ ," he grumbles, half under his breath.

 

Right before he turns away, he catches the barest quirk tugging at the corners of her lips — the ghost of a smile; not quite the real thing.

 

She drops her head on the pretext of adjusting the utility belt half-hidden under her thermal jacket. "I guess I should be insulted." At his questioning glance, she shrugs. "That that's what you think of me, I mean. That's who I am to you."

 

For a long beat, he doesn't say anything.

 

"Who we are," he says slowly, "and who we need to be to survive are two very different things."

 

That makes her head turn.

 

Their gazes lock together, warm brown meeting ice blue.

 

"Time to go," Miller announces.

 

 

 

 

An hour later, they're right smack in the middle of the overcrowded and dilapidated labyrinth that is Jedha City, and Bellamy is running as fast as his legs can carry him.

 

He ignores the silent protest of his lungs as they struggle to pull in enough air for the strain he's putting on his body, and careens wildly around a wall of brick, blaster already raised.

 

And then he skids to an abrupt stop, watching in utter bemusement as Clarke Griffin whips out two short, black truncheons — truncheons that she's _clearly_ kept well concealed in the folds of her thermal jacket — and starts _beating up_ the four stormtroopers attempting to seize her.

 

She's _fast_ , he notes vaguely. It's a good advantage to have. It's an even better one to exploit, especially when you're the smallest one in the fray.

 

But mostly, he's just caught off guard because — well, truth be told, it's been a good while since he's seen hand-to-hand combat skills anywhere _near_ that level. There are plenty of gifted, well-trained men and women in the Rebellion who can pilot an X-wing through a meteor field, or take down a mark from a kilometre away with a single shot.

 

There aren't many who can fight in close quarters like _that_ , spinning and swinging, moving sharp and swift, taking a hit to the ribs and recovering quickly enough to deliver two of their own to their opponent's neck.

 

She dispatches all four of the stormtroopers with ruthless efficiency. It takes her less than a single _minute_.

 

He lowers his blaster slightly, one brow raised. "'Defenseless', huh?"

 

She glances at him, traces of battle aggression still lingering on her face despite the fact that she's clearly struggling to catch her breath. "Lost my blaster. _Your_ blaster, I mean." She shrugs, her expression flat. "Sorry."

 

He notices the slight wince in her eyes and the subtle clench of her jaw when she attempts the movement. The jab to her side had definitely looked like it was packing considerably more punch than a friendly poke.

 

"Come on," he says instead, gesturing back down the way he's just come. "Miller found our guy."

 

 

 

 

" _You're_ the defector?"

 

The slim, slight man standing in front of Bellamy frowns, nostrils flaring in disbelief. His jet black hair is matted from the desert heat, sticking to his sweat-soaked forehead. He's got a few smudges of dirt on his face, but he appears to be otherwise unharmed.

 

"He's _one_ of the defectors," Miller steps in smoothly. "Monty Green, meet Captain Bellamy Blake."

 

Monty Green turns a wide-eyed stare on Bellamy, his jaw set. "If we're going to rescue Jasper, we need to do it _now_."

 

"Whoa, whoa," Bellamy says, holding a hand up. "Slow down."

 

He has _orders_. Orders that clearly spell out what he's here to do. He's here to _verify_ the information allegedly carried by the defectors — _not_ to carry out a rescue mission.

 

"There's no _time_ ," Monty insists, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

 

"What do you mean?"

 

Monty's gaze swings over to Clarke at the sound of her voice, his mouth falling open. "No way. Are— are you—"

 

"Fucking hell," Bellamy mutters, pinching at the bridge of his nose. "Yes, yes she is. Now, I have some questions for—"

 

Monty doesn't spare him a glance, still transfixed by the sight of Clarke. "Wow. You— you look just like your father."

 

Bellamy watches with silent intrigue as Clarke's mask of dispassionate neutrality wavers, and then cracks.

 

She takes a step forward, brows drawn tight. "You know my father?"

 

Monty nods furiously, glancing urgently at Bellamy and Miller in turn. "Jake Griffin. He's the one who sent us — me and Jasper. He's the one who gave us the message—"

 

"Message?" Bellamy cuts in sharply. "What message?"

 

Monty shoots an exasperated, despairing look at him. "That's what I'm talking about. The _message_."

 

Miller sighs heavily. "Let me guess."

 

"It's with Jasper," Bellamy finishes, exchanging a grim look with Miller.

 

They're cut off by the deafening rumble of a small convoy of stormtrooper shuttles, trundling past the little alcove they've sequestered themselves off in. Bellamy frowns after the pseudo-parade of Imperial vehicles. All three are travelling at a speed _far_ above regular patrol or transport needs.

 

"What's going on?" he says, turning to look at Monty.

 

Monty's expression is sombre, with not even a hint of amusement to be found in the naturally warm hue of his eyes. "Like I said — we don't have much time."

 

 

 

 

 _'We'll just walk up to them',_ Bellamy thinks bitterly. _'We'll just introduce ourselves, and they'll take us to Jaha.' Brilliant._

 

Blast whatever messed up part of his karma it is that's allowed the universe to throw him together with Clarke Griffin.

 

Even now, just replaying the memory of her explaining her oh so _intricate_ plan is making his insides heat, fingers curling into fists at the sound of her voice filling the corners of his mind.

 

Then again, he supposes there are worse distractions to be had when one is taken prisoner by a band of reputably violent rebel extremists. Not like he's got anything else to pay attention to when he's got a bag of dark burlap over his head and both hands restrained behind his back.

 

At least they'd failed to find the security kit stashed inside of his boot on their (unnecessarily rough) pat-down. He's reasonably confident that whatever cell they decide to place him and his companions in, he'll be able to break out of it, as long as there are tumblers or switches involved.

 

And then a snag hits when he catches the sound of Clarke's lighter footfalls being led off from the group.

 

"Hey, where are you taking her?" he demands. He receives a hard shove between the shoulder blades, causing him to stumble forward blindly. "Where are you taking her?" he repeats, raising his voice insistently. The only answer he receives is another hard shove.

 

In the background, Clarke's steps are fading from earshot.

 

 _No, no, no,_ a small voice screams at the back of his head. _Not her too_.

 

His head whips around blindly, one last-ditch attempt at picking up any traces of her again. "Clarke? _Clarke?_ "

 

The bag is ripped off of his head, and he's left blinking in the half darkness for all of two seconds before he's roughly pushed forward again.

 

Regaining his balance, he whirls around, just in time to see the sour-faced soldier slamming the cell door shut, clicking the lock firmly home with a large key.

 

"Enjoy your stay," he snarls, before stalking off.

 

"Doubt it," Miller's voice comments, and Bellamy whips round to see his teammate and the defector standing side by side, rubbing idly at their wrists as they survey their temporary accommodations. It's no more than a hole roughly hewn from the rock, moss and other greeneries growing in corners of the uneven walls. Miller shrugs, casting a wry glance at Bellamy and Monty. "Fancy."

 

"They took her," Bellamy growls, pacing restlessly to one end of the small cell before wheeling about and starting towards the other end. The distance just barely measures four of his strides. "They _took_ her somewhere."

 

"She'll be fine, I think," Monty says warily, still peering about their surroundings. "They're probably just taking her to see Jaha."

 

Miller nods, looking at Bellamy. "Yeah. Y'know, 'cause she went up to them and _literally_ announced _'I'm Clarke Griffin, daughter of Jake Griffin, and I want to see Thelonious Jaha'_. Remember that?" He cocks his head, mouth pursed in thought. "Not much for finesse, is she?"

 

Bellamy shakes his head slowly, pulling in a deep breath of stale air. "No, she is not," he mutters, before giving himself another rough shake of the head in an attempt to force his brain to _focus_. Losing his composure over Clarke Griffin is _not_ the way to go, _especially_ not when he's got a mission to complete.

 

Okay.

 

They're in here — wherever this rock pit of a _here_ even is. Clarke's out there somewhere — probably face to face with Thelonious Jaha right this minute.

 

If Bellamy had to guess, based on everything his unblocked senses had picked up on the journey to Jaha's base, they're approximately five kilometres out from Jedha City. Judging from the abundance of rock surrounding them, they're probably deep in the high cliffs to the south of the city. The faint odour of incense in the musky air, as well as the hollow timbre of their boots against the floor as they'd been escorted in gives him enough certainty to pinpoint their exact location as the abandoned monastery he'd spotted as they'd flown in earlier.

 

If they could _just_ get hold of one of their comlinks, send a message to Raven…

 

"So," Miller begins conversationally, "it could totally just be me, but does it sound like the walls are, I don't know, _whimpering_?"

 

All three of them go completely still, ears pricked for the slightest sound.

 

"It's coming from… over here," Bellamy says, moving over to the wall on his right. There's a little knot in the wall, no bigger than the size of his fist. He presses up against the dry rock, struggling to peer through it. "It— it kind of sounds like—"

 

" _Jasper?_ " Monty gasps, hurrying over to the wall. Bellamy lets himself be shoved aside from the hole, shooting a quick look at Miller as he steps back. "Jasper, are you there? It's me, Monty!"

 

"Monty?" a voice calls back, shaky. "Monty, what are you doing here?" There's a slight strangled sound. "They didn't get you too, did they? Monty, don't let them get you—"

 

"I'm all right, Jasper, I'm here," Monty says, fingertips scrabbling at the edges of the tiny knot as if trying to crawl right through it somehow. "Oh, no, _no_ — what did they _do_ to you?"

 

"I don't know." The voice sounds plaintive, pleading; almost childlike. "I don't _know_ — he said he had to know, he had to _know_ for sure—"

 

"The message," Bellamy interrupts, anchoring his tone with a firm urgency. "Where's the message from Jake Griffin?"

 

"He took it," Jasper says, his voice small. "He took it, but he wanted to make sure I was telling the truth—"

 

Bellamy exchanges a bleak look with Miller. They've heard more than their fair share of stories about Thelonious Jaha's interrogation methods.

 

"Jasper," Monty says, leaning in close to the knot. "We're gonna get you out of here, all right? We're going to—"

 

The rest of his assurances are swallowed up by a violent rumble, quaking right through the solid rock of the cell walls.

 

"Cap," Miller says sharply.

 

Bellamy spins about on his heel, frowning at the sight of Jaha's soldiers running past their prison, practically tumbling over one another in their haste, shouting back and forth in several different languages. He strains his ears when he manages to catch one that's vaguely familiar.

 

" _'It's coming'_ ," he translates, glancing between Miller and Monty.

 

Monty's pallor gives him the appearance of being about two seconds away from fainting, but his eyes narrow alertly. "What's coming?"

 

Another violent quake ripples through the cell, sending its occupants scrambling for balance.

 

"Never mind," Monty says, all the blood drained from his face. "I think I know."

 

Miller shoots a sharp look at Bellamy. "I don't think we want to find out."

 

"Agreed," Bellamy says tersely, already crouching to pull his security kit from his boot. The corridor outside isn't yet quite clear of soldiers, but no one seems to be paying much attention to their cell. He drops to his knees, already inserting the two slim electropicks into the lock, which, thankfully, appears to be simple enough. "First, we get out of here," he calls to Miller, brows drawing tight with the effort of keeping his hand steady through the lingering tremors. "Next, we get our weapons. Then, you and Monty get Jasper Jordan out, and meet me up top."

 

"What about you?" Miller asks, his tone clipped with efficiency.

 

Bellamy scrunches his nose in one last stretch of concentration, twisting his wrist to manoeuvre that _extra_ angle…

 

… and a satisfying 'click' sounds.

 

Pushing himself to his feet, he swings the cell door open, turning to level a resolute look at Miller. "I'm gonna go get Clarke."

 

 

 

 

When he finds Clarke, she's on her knees.

 

Stones and debris from the crumbling ceiling are scattered around her slumped-over form. Her grimy face is marked with the faint but distinct outline of tear tracks. Her blue eyes are shining with unshed ones as she kneels, staring an empty holoprojector, frozen motionless with —

 

With what? Sadness? Anger? Shock?  

 

"Clarke," he says, starting towards her. He stops when he spots the figure behind her, the hand gripping his blaster rising automatically.

 

Thelonious Jaha, he realises mutely. Not quite as impressive as he'd been privately imagining after all the tales and stories — but still a sight to behold nonetheless.

 

"Take her," Jaha wheezes. Bellamy's eyes flick down quickly to the breathing regulator on the man's chest.

 

Jaha coughs, banging his walking stick on the ground as if attempting to stamp out whatever illness it is that's ailing him through sheer force. "Take her," he repeats, his milky eyes refocusing sharply on Bellamy. "Get out. _Go_."

 

Bellamy keeps an eye on the man as he moves swiftly towards Clarke, dropping to a crouch beside her before warily tearing his gaze away.

 

"Clarke," he says, reaching out to wrap his hand around her arm. Whatever it is that Jaha's shown her, her emotions will just have to wait. If Raven's rough estimations are accurate — and he's willing to bet both his legs that they are — they're just _seconds_ away from turning into piles of ash, along with the rest of Jaha's monastery base. "Clarke, we have to go. _Now_."

 

Her head snaps up. Even through the stray wisps of blonde that's escaped her braid, the piercing blue of her eyes settling on his with surprising accuracy.

 

She's up on her feet within mere milliseconds. She stops before they get to the door, whirling around to stare at Jaha.

 

"Thelonious—"

 

"My fight is over," Jaha says, his free hand raised in a grand gesture — authority in the acceptance of his fate, rather than surrender to his impending doom. "But not yours, Clarke. Go, now. For your father."

 

He expects some sort of stubborn argument from Clarke. After all, if there's anything he's learned about her, _combative_ is a good place to start.

 

But she looks at Jaha for a brief second more — and then, with a single nod, she's on the move again.

 

He casts one last glance over his shoulder as they depart, before whipping around to catch up with her.

 

 

 

 

The silence rings throughout the ship, almost as deafening as the roar of pure destruction that had filled it mere moments ago.

 

"What," Miller begins roughly, "the _fuck_ was _that_?"

 

Raven's mouth is set into a thin line. "I'm guessing we've found our planet killer."

 

"It's real, then," Monty whispers. He and Jasper Jordan are slumped back against the hull of the ship. Both men — _boys_ , really — are limp, pupils are blown wide with horror. "They did it. They really did it."

 

Jasper hiccups. "S—so much for Clearance Level T-Twelve." He tries to turn his head, to cast a glance at Monty, but all vestiges of energy appear to have been sapped from his lanky body. His head ends up just sort of lolling sideways. A dirty pair of flight goggles are sitting atop his mess of dark hair. "So much for that, eh?"

 

"It's not supposed to be operational," Miller growls, frustration and anger overlapping in his voice. "Did you see what it did back there? Did you—"

 

"Take a breath, Miller," Bellamy orders, keeping his eyes fixed on the transparisteel viewport. It's entirely unnecessary — they're already safely in hyperspace, and they'll continue to cruise aimlessly before he or Raven enters some actual _coordinates_.

 

"But it's not indestructible."

 

Five sets of eyes turn towards Clarke.

 

"There's a vent," she says, her eyes darting between all five of them. "An exhaust vent leading straight down to the reactor core. One well-placed drop of a good-sized explosive, and—" She gestures with her hands.

 

"Planet killer goes boom," Raven supplies slowly. She turns in her seat, her brilliant mechanic's brain already latching onto the notion. "Huh."

 

Bellamy frowns. "A battle station that size is going to have a million vents. How are we supposed to find just _one_?"

 

"It's in the plans," Clarke says, her voice rising with a fervour that he hasn't yet heard from her. For some reason, it's almost as worrying to him as the bleak flatness that she'd been employing up until now. "It's marked out in the plans, the structural plans to the Death Star—"

 

"Death Star," Miller repeats sharply, his gaze cutting to Bellamy and Raven. "Did she just say _Death Star_?"

 

"Points for appropriateness," Raven says, her mouth pressed into a grim line. "None for the goddamn _thing_ itself."

 

Bellamy shakes his head, struggling to wrap his brain around the information she's spilling all at once. "And where are we supposed to _find_ these plans? I doubt they're just sitting pretty in some Empire admiral's Coruscant office right now, waiting for us to swing by."

 

"Scarif," Clarke says, her stance widening defensively. "They're on _Scarif_."

 

"How do you know?" Monty asks, a little cautiously.

 

Her gaze flits over to him for a brief second. "My father told me. It was in his message. It was _his_ idea to build the vents. He designed them, he made sure one would lead straight down to the reactor core." Her eyes flick round the group. "My father spent _fifteen years_ of his life building this trap. He's given us a way to destroy the Death Star, for _good!_ "

 

"Where is it?"

 

Five sets of stares swivel round to focus on Bellamy.

 

"Your father's message," he says, a note of harshness entering his tone. " _Where the hell is it?_ "

 

For the first time since leaving Thelonious Jaha's presence, Clarke Griffin falters.

 

"The holoimage," she starts, and then stops, swallowing hard. "The disk — it was in the holoprojector."

 

" _Was?_ " Bellamy asks sharply.

 

"It's—" Clarke blinks. Something like despair clouds over her face. "There wasn't time. I didn't have time, I—"

 

"So it's gone," Miller finishes tightly. He nods, sardonic. "Wonderful."

 

"Hey," Monty speaks up, brows furrowed, "that's not fair. It's not her _fault_."

 

"I didn't _say_ it was," Miller snaps — but the tension dissipates slightly from his tone. Blowing out a heavy sigh through gritted teeth, he casts a sidelong glance at Monty. "Sorry, just— that message was really important."

 

"Bit of an understatement," Raven adds flatly. She casts a quick glance over her shoulder at the group gathered behind her. "You. Goggles," she calls. Jasper Jordan looks up, as if dazed at his own ability to decipher the noise floating around him into words. "You were carrying the message. You happen to see it?"

 

Bellamy doesn't bother turning around. The look on Raven's face is all the indication he needs as to Jasper's response.

 

She sighs, and looks over at Bellamy. "What now, Cap?"

 

He clenches his jaw. "We head for Eadu."

 

"Eadu?" Clarke's voice is significantly closer to the cockpit than it'd been moments ago. "We have to get back to your base. We have to tell your leaders there's a way to blow this thing up. We have to destroy it before it destroys anything else!"

 

"The thing is," he starts, speaking slowly in an attempt to maintain his calm, "without that holoimage, we have no proof. Nothing for the Council to go on." He shrugs, flicking a few switches to adjust their trajectory as Raven enters the coordinates for Eadu. "It's better if we find your father first."

 

There's a weighted pause.

 

"You don't believe me."

 

Clarke's tone is almost accusatory.

 

Somewhere, deep inside of him, there's a secret, mad desire to laugh. It's not vicious, though. Hell, it's not even _triumphant_.

 

Oh, how the tables have turned.

 

"Whether or not I believe you is irrelevant," he settles for saying. "We have a mission to complete."

 

"I believe her!" Jasper calls.

 

"Me, too," Monty chimes in.

 

Raven snorts. "Neither of you are even _in_ the Rebellion."

 

Miller barks a dry, mirthless laugh. "But thanks for playing, boys."

 

Bellamy doesn't turn around. Instead, he listens to the sound of Clarke's now-familiar footfalls leading away from the cockpit, for the light huff of exhalation as she settles back down into her seat.

 

Slowly, he releases the breath he's been holding suspended in his lungs. Better to keep his distance from now on. If she's unhappy with him now, he genuinely doesn't think he's going to make it back to Yavin 4 in one piece — not once he's completed his mission.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**EADU**

 

"Comms are officially fried," Raven announces, her ponytail sticking to her skin as she shakes off the rainwater from her external inspection of the ship.

 

"'Fly low', huh?" Miller echoes, with a wry glance over his shoulder at a distracted Jasper Jordan.

 

"No, he was right," Raven says, grabbing a spare rag to dab the water out of her eyes. "I'll take a bumpy landing over getting spotted and shot down by Imperial turrets any day."

 

Bellamy casts a questioning glance at her. "Can you fix them?"

 

"I can _un_ -fry most of it," she says with reassuring certainty, reaching down with both hands to adjust the brace wrapped around her left leg. "But it's gonna take more than a wrench and a couple screws to get our long-range transmissions back."

 

Bellamy straps his quad-nocs onto his utility belt. "Fix what you can," he instructs her and Miller. "And make sure the ship is ready to go as soon as possible. I won't be long."

 

Raven cocks a brow. "Why do I get the feeling you're not telling us something?"

 

"Because I'm not," he says starkly, staring into the empty space between them. He lifts his gaze, takes in their questioning expressions. "Kane's orders."

 

The perfect sync with which they execute their nods would be eerie, if he weren't so used to the sight.

 

"We'll be ready."

 

He nods, giving his handheld blaster one last quick inspection before tucking it into his belt. "Jasper!" he calls, picking up the long-range weapon he's prepared for himself. "Let's go."

 

Jasper appears at his side, frantically clicking the belt buckle closed on his lightweight parka — a loan from the meagre supplies stacked in the ship's tiny storage cabin. "Ready, Captain."

 

"I'm coming too."

 

Bellamy's already shaking his head before he even turns to look at Clarke. "You're staying with the ship."

 

She glares at him, her hands planted on her hips. "That's my _father_ out there. I'm _coming_."

 

He zips up his jacket, slinging his rifle over his shoulder before turning to face her, stone-faced and unyielding. "Do you know this terrain? Do you know the layout of this research facility? Do you have _any_ idea about where your father's going to be, _or_ how to find him?"

 

Her chin juts out ever so slightly, but she remains otherwise silent.

 

"No, you don't," he finishes. He jabs a thumb at the lanky boy fumbling with his flight goggles. "Jordan over here does. _He's_ going to be useful. _He's_ not going to slow me down." He folds his arms across his chest. "Do you want this mission to be successful or not?"

 

Shoving down the flash of guilt streaking through his mind at his last addition, he focuses all of his energy towards holding Clarke's gaze.

 

Again, she remains silent. But he catches a definite prick of hesitation in her eyes.

 

He latches onto it before she can change her mind. "Stay with the ship," he repeats, pulling his hood up over his head in preparation for braving the heavy downpour beating down around them.

 

With a brief gesture to Jasper Jordan, he signals for Raven to lower the ramp. Together, the two men stride down the ramp and off the ship.

 

 

 

 

By the time Bellamy's found the perfect spot to scope out the facility's landing pad activity from, it's slowly starting to dawn on him that there's an actual, physical _churning_ in his gut.

 

He's not too sure what it is, exactly.

 

Maybe it's the nonstop chattering of Jasper Jordan, going on about _'when I was last on Eadu for a supply run'_ and _'one time, Jake Griffin gave me a Nubian pear'_ and _'Monty and I used to get stuck with cleanup duty whenever our commander caught us doing our special high five'._ Bellamy's gotten rid of him for now, sending him down to a lower ridge to 'scout ahead' — but something about the odd note of urgency in the other man's tone had given him pause. Like Jasper Jordan had been trying to buy some time to put off his _own_ death sentence.

 

Maybe it's the news of Jake Griffin's message. Bellamy had been expecting confirmation of an Imperial planet killer, plain and simple. They weren't supposed to receive fully detailed instructions on how to _destroy_ it.

 

The analytical part of his brain tells him it's way, _way_ too good to be true — and therefore probably isn't, as the bulk of his experience in this war has taught him far too well. A brilliant, renowned engineer lets himself be taken prisoner by the Empire, and spends fifteen years pretending to be on their side, all while working to sabotage them in the most damaging way possible? It's _insane_.

 

All the same, after meeting Jake Griffin's daughter — Jake Griffin's very own _flesh and blood_ — well, Bellamy's starting to doubt if the idea isn't _quite_ so ludicrous.

 

 _Clarke_. Even with everything weighing on his mind, the one thing it chooses to come back to is the thought of _Clarke Griffin_.

 

"It's for the cause," he mutters to himself, checking the sniper configuration on his rifle before repositioning his eye to the scope. "Jake Griffin's too valuable to the Empire. Kill him, kill the Empire's chances of making this planet killer work."

 

 _But it already does work,_ a small voice insists at the back of his mind.  

 

"You have a mission," he counters, finding Jake Griffin amidst the small crowd of Imperial engineers and other personnel, placing him right at the centre of the crosshairs. "You have to do this."

 

But for some fucking reason, there's _still_ a legitimate, tangible _churning_ in his fucking _gut_ right now, and it would _really_ make his life a little bit less impossible if it would fucking _go away._

 

He swallows down the lump in his throat. It rises yet again. He ignores it altogether, and focuses in on the face of Jake Griffin.

 

A face that's lined with years of suffering. A face that speaks of a heart trapped between rocks and hard places for far too long. A face that's set with hardness, but with a certain slant to a rounded chin that makes Bellamy think of a gentle softness, buried deep under several feet of anguish.

 

A face that bears _so_ much resemblance to the face of Clarke Griffin.

 

 _You_ , he tells himself silently, _are the biggest fucking fool in the entire Rim_.

 

It's only when he lowers his rifle properly that he sees two things.

 

The first is the Imperial shuttle approaching the landing pad, tri-pointed and ominous.

 

The second is the yellow-haired figure climbing steadily up to the landing pad.

 

For all of two seconds, Bellamy's frozen in place, fingers growing cold around the barrel of his rifle.

 

And then he's up and running, every iota of him silently screaming at whatever cosmic forces might be listening on this godforsaken planet for Clarke Griffin to stay _alive alive alive_.

 

 

 

 

Bellamy's killed before.

 

He knows what it feels like to shut all of your emotional sensibilities down for a minute, or two, or ten — however much time you need to in order to survive. To do what needs to be done.

 

But it always comes back, in the quiet moments. The memory of every person he's stolen the life from too soon with his hands. It always comes back, no matter how many days he works himself to exhaustion in hopes of a good night's sleep, no matter how many noble justifications he bolsters up against them.

 

But the man in white on the platform in front of Jake Griffin — Director Cage Wallace, of the Galactic Emperor's service — on his face, Bellamy sees no trace of neither emotion nor sentiment. Not as he's speaking to Jake Griffin, a smug smirk playing on his thin lips as the rest of the engineers cower behind their leader. Not as he lifts a hand, and his lineup of death troopers raise their blasters at the huddle of figures quaking behind Jake Griffin.

 

Not as he makes the barest twitch of his hand, and his death troopers open fire on Jake Griffin's engineers.

 

Bellamy spots Clarke just off to the edge of the landing pad, crouched on a lower level as she watches the proceedings unfold. His heart pounds even faster when he sees her reach for something slung across her back — a second rifle.

 

Resisting the urge to curse out loud, he saves his breath and picks up speed.

 

And then, out of the corner of his eye, some unnameable thing prompts him to turn his head. All the breath is punched from his gasping lungs at the sight of the swiftly approaching X-wing squadron. Slowing to a horrified stop, Bellamy watches the starfighters peel in fast, already closer to the Imperial facility than the horizon they're coming from, spreading out into an attack formation he knows all too well.

 

Scrambling for his comlink, he brings it up to his mouth, his free hand desperately trying to shield it from the rain.

 

"Raven!" he yells desperately, watching the Rebel fighters pull in closer, "Raven, come in! Are you there? Tell Kane to stop the attack!"

 

Static floods in on his co-pilot's end — and then, a familiar voice.

 

"... can't read you," her voice trickles in, crackled and tinny. "I repeat, unable to read message. Say again. Over."

 

"Tell them to stop!" he shouts, starting off again towards the landing pad. "Clarke's there! They're going to kill her!"

 

"I can't! I can't get through to base!" Raven's completely abandoned the usual speech protocols — a sure sign of just how frantic she is. "Long-range comms are still out! Bellamy, you have to—"

 

He shoves his comlink into his jacket, breaking out into a full-on sprint for the landing pad even as alarms start blaring all over the Imperial facility.

 

He manages barely three strides before the first strike hits.

 

 

 

 

Of the next five minutes, all Bellamy really sees are flashes.

 

A wave of thunder, rumbling through the air and his chest.

 

Bolts of lightning splitting the sky, giving way to bolts of laser energy as the rebels — his _comrades_ open fire.

 

The unmistakable squeal of a proton torpedo, spinning furiously on an invisible axis as it careens straight towards the landing pad.

 

A yellow-haired figure on its knees; a second limp figure cradled in its lap, one hand reaching up with agonising sluggishness.

 

Another flash streaking across the sky — an act of nature or destruction, he can't tell anymore.

 

But for one brief second, it lights up the face of Jake Griffin.

 

And then the hand of Clarke Griffin's father drops from her face, collapsing lifelessly to the cold, wet concrete of the platform.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**EN ROUTE BACK TO BASE**

 

In the enclosed cabin of the Imperial cargo shuttle, Bellamy is fully aware of the stares weighing on him as he struggles to undo his jacket, the rainwater weighing the material down on his frame and turning everything slick.

 

Somewhere behind him, he's vaguely aware of Jasper Jordan and Monty Green huddled together, their sombre gazes pricking at his back. He still doesn't know how or when they'd stolen the cargo shuttle right out of the Imperial facility's hangar, but he's beyond grateful that they did. Without it, both he and Clarke would very likely have been killed once the X-wing fighters had circled round for a second wave of attack.

 

For two people who have essentially saved the day, neither Jasper Jordan nor Monty Green look like they're much for celebrating right now. Then again, neither do Raven and Miller, both of them in the pilots' seats up front with their heads carefully turned towards the viewport, giving every appearance of focusing all their attention on getting the group back to base.

 

He keeps his head down, fumbles with buckles and zips, and tries to focus on calming the still harsh rhythm of his breathing.

 

He can sense Clarke turning towards him without even looking at her, and for some reason, his chest rings with a hollow pang.

 

"You killed my father." Her voice trembles, and it's the most emotion he's seen from her yet.  

 

"No, I didn't," he says. He tries not to think about how _insistent_ it comes out.

 

"You may as well have," she snaps. "Those were rebel fighters out there. _Your_ people."

 

"This attack had nothing to do with me," Bellamy says, his tone rising in both volume and sharpness. "I didn't kill your father."

 

"You mean you didn't _get_ to," she retorts, taking two quick steps towards him. "You were never going to rescue him, were you? The plan was to kill him all along. _Wasn't it?_ "

 

He feels a surge of heat spike through him. It's ridiculous. She's not _wrong_.

 

"You need to calm down," he says instead. The extra note of firmness he anchors to his tone is just as much for his benefit as it is hers. "Take a breath."

 

" _Don't_ ," she hisses, sidestepping to block him when he attempts to move past her. "I'm not your fucking _subordinate_ , _Captain_."

 

He's whipping his head up before he can think about it, the vehemence of his glare clashing terribly with hers. "And you're sure as hell not my _partner_ , either. Don't give me that self-righteous _bullshit_ , Clarke. You're the _last_ person on this ship with the right to pass judgement here."

 

She steps in close, her eyes blazing. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

 

He's already mirroring the movement on sheer impulse, leaning in close and using every bit of the few inches' difference between their heights to his advantage. "I just defied a _direct order_ from my commanding officer. I had your father _right_ in my crosshairs, and I _didn't kill him_. I didn't just betray my leaders, I betrayed _everything_ I've spent my entire life fighting for!"

 

"You betrayed _me_!" Clarke shouts. "You _knew_ my father was trying to help us!"

 

" _I had a job to do!_ " Bellamy shouts back.

 

She draws a sharp breath, both arms crossing tightly over her middle. The rain-drenched material of her clothes squelches unpleasantly with the movement. "So if you'd been _ordered_ to kill me too, I would be dead right now?"

 

There's no curiosity in her tone. Only cold, harsh accusation. She's not seeking an answer — only vindication.

 

He scoffs once, in disbelief. He tears his gaze away, lets it swing back to her, and scoffs again.

 

"I don't need this shit," he mutters, shouldering past her with a couple of long strides.

 

He hears her bark a laugh — a bitter, grating sound to his ears.

 

"Oh, no," she mocks behind his back, her voice full of scorn. "All the _Captain_ needs are his _orders_. Put as many innocent men to the barrel of his blaster as you'd like. Just be sure to sign off on the dotted line _before_ you pull the trigger."

 

He growls, whirling around to advance on her again. He knows he should stop — take a deep breath, _think_ — but he _can't_. Liquid heat is broiling in his veins, and there's a roaring in his ears that's blocking out all of his cognitive sensibilities.

 

"Give me a fucking _break_. All of a sudden, _you_ wanna talk about _doing the right thing_? You've spent the last five years _running your ass off_ to get the hell _away_ from this fight — and all because, _what_? You lost your _parents_?" He spreads his hands, gesturing pointedly around the cabin of the ship. "Look around you, _princess_. This is _practically_ a certified orphans-only zone."

 

He takes another step forward, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder, towards the open cockpit. "Raven's never even _met_ her parents. Miller's father fucking _asked_ him to kill him, _with his own hand_! Because _that's_ what you do when you're bleeding out in six different places on the losing side of the battlefield, and your only two options are getting caught by stormtroopers and tortured for information, or a blaster bolt to the head _from your own son_. My sister was _sixteen years old_ when she—"

 

He breaks off, shocked to find himself practically gasping for air.

 

Clarke's eyes are wide. Not surprise, no. Not even sympathy.

 

Her expression is completely shuttered. He's unable to read any part of it — save for the twitching of the tightly clenched fist at her side.

 

Her icy glare narrows in on him. "If you think," she says, slowly and clearly, "that _any_ of that is going to make me forgive you—"

 

"I don't," he cuts in harshly. He turns away from her, nostrils flaring as they pull in ragged breaths of air. "And I sure as fuck don't _need_ you to."

 

 

 

 

Miller quietly scrambles out of the way when he clambers into the cockpit, making room for Bellamy to heave himself into pilot's seat beside Raven.

 

"Yavin Four?" Bellamy grunts, passing a cursory hand over the board as he checks the array of unfamiliar switches and screens laid out before him.

 

"Yavin Four," Raven confirms, her tone perfectly neutral.

 

Behind them, Miller hovers, an elbow propped on each of their headrests as if idly observing them navigate their way through hyperspace.

 

A long minute passes.

 

Raven takes a breath, and opens her mouth.

 

" _Don't_ ," Bellamy warns.

 

Raven's eyes slide towards him.

 

"Well," she says conversationally, "I was just gonna say — don't get water all over the controls."

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**YAVIN 4**

 

By the time they're pulling back into Yavin 4's orbit, all the heat of Bellamy's fight with Clarke has long dissipated.

 

A lot of that has to do with space itself. Given that they're currently in a transport vessel acquired out of circumstantial necessity (read: _stolen_ ), he hasn't quite been able to find something to properly dry off with. It's left him chilled nearly to the bone. Even so, he'd refused to head into the back for an extra jacket.

 

It's mostly because he'd wanted to leave any spare layers for the rest. After all, if it's freezing in the small cockpit, he can only imagine how much worse it must be in the main cabin.

 

He'd never admit it out loud — but it's also a little bit because that course of action would require him to climb out of the cockpit, and walk right through the main cabin of the ship to the storage compartments at the back. And, yeah, his stubbornness has probably crossed over into foolish territory long, _long_ ago. But, for as long as he possibly can, he just really, _really_ wants to put off being in the same space as Clarke Griffin.

 

Either way, he's acutely aware of the fact that whatever it is that's left him to spend the entire journey home with a hollow chill creeping into his bones, it's definitely not _just_ to do with _space_. And, truth be told, that revelation alone is really, _really_ disturbing.

 

He _doesn't_ need Clarke Griffin's forgiveness.

 

She's not his ranking superior. She's not an Alliance leader. She's not even _Rebellion._

 

She's nothing. She's _nobody_.

 

Despite all of that, he can't help the prickling heat of discomfort that pokes and prods at his insides.

 

 _'So if you'd been_ ordered _to kill me too, I would be dead right now?'_

 

The truth hits him for what must be the hundredth time, a tidal wave slamming into his chest and knocking the very breath from his lungs.

 

He wouldn't.

 

He _couldn't_ , even if General Kane were standing right by his shoulder, commanding him with all the authority of the Alliance _and_ the Senate behind him.

 

 _'You betrayed me!'_ Clarke yells in his head, the image of her smaller form soaked with rainwater and trembling with rage splashed all over the canvas of his mind. _'You betrayed me!'_ — over and over.

 

 _You've betrayed yourself,_ he tells himself quietly.

 

Clarke's right. He didn't kill Jake Griffin — but for all he did, for all he _didn't_ do, he may as well have.

 

How many? How many others have there been? How many men and women have lost their lives this way? How many men and women did he steal the breath from, all for the sake of a cause that's been fogged out for who knows how long? A cause that's been diluted, and half buried by a political agenda driven by fear and anguish?

 

That's not what the Rebellion stands for. The Rebellion's supposed to stand for freedom, for justice. The Rebellion stands for _hope_.

 

At least… it _did_.

 

When did Bellamy become the very thing he's fighting to destroy?

 

Clarke's right about her father's message, too. Bellamy _does_ know that Jake Griffin was genuinely, earnestly trying to help the Rebellion, not harm it. He can neither fully understand nor explain it, but, somehow, he just _knows_.

 

He knows, because he'd heard it from _Clarke_.  

 

How in the blazes is that even _possible_?

 

He's accepted any and all orders given to him by General Kane with no question. He's taken risks that have left his life dangling by a thread, left to fate and chance. He's run right into the line of fire on multiple occasions, trusting Raven and Miller and his rebel comrades to defend him to the best of their ability. He's stared death itself in its cold, unyielding face.

 

He's seen so much of this gruesome, drawn-out war — and in all the galaxy, the one place he sees _truth_ is in the eyes of Clarke Griffin.

 

Once the ship is safely on the ground, he pauses, taking a deep breath.

 

 _Clear your mind,_ he tells himself firmly. _Focus_.

 

The debriefing with Kane is the priority right now. At this urgent hour, _that_ is the thing most deserving of his full, utmost attention.

 

Everything else can wait.

 

 

 

 

When the ramp is lowered, a small group of six rebel soldiers comes into view. They approach the cargo shuttle at a brisk pace, holstered blasters clearly visible at their sides.

 

Bellamy moves towards the ramp, glancing at Jasper and Monty's wide-eyed expressions. "They're going to want to interview you two separately," he says, injecting a faint note of reassurance in his gruff tone. "Nothing to worry about. It's just protocol, all right?"

 

To his surprise, Monty's gaze flicks to Clarke, as if on impulse.

 

Bellamy watches silently as she musters up a small smile and a firm nod. "You'll be fine. Both of you," she adds, glancing to Jasper. She cocks a brow, her mouth slanting wryly. "Besides, between the three of us, I've got a good feeling you guys aren't the problematic ones."

 

Jasper and Monty huff shaky laughs. They each exchange one last look with Clarke, before heading out of the ship towards their waiting escorts.

 

He doesn't miss the way her piercing gaze follows the duo closely. Four of the soldiers arrange themselves around the two defectors, and proceed to lead them out of the open hangar. It's almost imperceptible, but her shoulders sag just a little. Like she'd been expecting Jasper and Monty to be put in cuffs right off the bat.

 

He clears his throat, breaking the moment for himself as much as her. "We're going straight to General Kane," he says, looking away when she starts to turn her head, to direct her gaze towards him. "He wants to debrief us both personally."

 

There's a pause — and he wonders if she doesn't believe his words.

 

After a long moment, she nods. Glancing past him, she frowns. "What about them?"

 

Raven waves blindly over her shoulder, still bent over the console as she runs a couple of diagnostic tests. "Heading to mission report right after this. Don't mind us."

 

"Yeah," Miller calls from the cargo area, a trace of feigned indignation in his dry voice. "No one-on-one time with Kane for any of us small fry."

 

For some reason, Miller's little jest seems to set Clarke on edge.

 

They stride down the ramp together, and she barely pays the two waiting guards any attention beyond a wary glance as they pivot sharply to follow her and Bellamy towards headquarters.

 

"You look tense," Bellamy says, carefully keeping his tone light. Well, as light as it can get when they're on the cusp of changing the fate of the Rebel Alliance forever with the news they're carrying.

 

"Do I?" she says, and he's almost _relieved_ to hear the sarcasm dripping from her husky voice. Combative Clarke is definitely something he's already familiar with.

 

She exhales sharply, eyes darting around the base as if trying to memorise every inch of buzzing activity in the area. There's going to be a big meeting in a few hours. Alliance leaders and representatives are flying in from all over this Rim and the next. It's a perilously dangerous endeavour, calling everyone in to headquarters at the same time like this. Every person on this moon probably has a list of preparations as long as their arm.

 

Suddenly, Clarke shakes her head. "Small fry," she repeats.

 

There's mockery in her tone. That's fine. He almost expects as much.

 

The disbelief, however, far outweighs any hint of teasing in her echo of Miller's words.

 

He could tell her that whatever she's thinking, she's _wrong_. He could tell her she's important, that she _matters_. He could tell her that as hard as she's been working over the last fifteen years to become insignificant, she's _not_ just a speck of stardust, floating aimlessly throughout the galaxy.

 

"What's important is your father's message," he says after a long beat. "All you have to do is tell Kane what you know."

 

She scoffs derisively, casting the barest glance in his direction. "Yeah, because that worked so well with you."

 

"Yeah," he mutters, before he can give himself time to regret his admission. "Yeah, it really did."

 

She turns to look at him, her braid whipping about her shoulders with the abruptness of the movement.

 

For the first time since their fight, he meets her gaze unflinchingly. "Give Kane the truth. Everything else can wait."

 

 

 

* * *

 

  

 

 **ALLIANCE HEADQUARTERS** — **BRIEFING ROOM**

 

Clarke in the middle of a brawl is a pretty impressive sight.

 

Clarke in the middle of a roomful of politicians is a little less impressive, but no less intriguing.

 

At first glance, she seems thoroughly out of her element, eyes always darting about instead of fixing on whoever happens to be speaking at the moment — like she's constantly expecting someone to lob a grenade in the middle of the room at any moment.

 

Even so, whenever she's called upon to speak, she does so with surprising fluency, managing to articulate urgency and fervour with a raw sort of grace. The poise of Jake Griffin, combined with the fire of Thelonious Jaha. She's clearly (and _severely_ ) unpracticed in the art of public address, but the lack of refinement only strengthens the appeal of her words.

 

To him, that is.

 

To the senators and royal aides and secretaries gathered in the room, she's very likely to be eliciting an entirely different response.

 

Nevertheless, Bellamy is so focused on her that he doesn't even notice Raven and Miller get back from their own debrief, shouldering their way through the crowd of rebel commanders and officials to get to him. In fact, it's only pure fighter's instinct that alerts him to their approach, mere seconds before they reach his side.

 

"She looks comfortable," Raven comments sardonically, a hint of disdain colouring her low tone. None of them have ever had much patience for the drudgery of politics, and, from the look on Clarke Griffin's face, it seems that neither does she.

 

"And there's Senator Sydney, making _that_ face again," Miller murmurs, positioning his mouth over his hand so that his words are muffled out to anyone but Bellamy and Raven.

 

Bellamy's gaze swivels over accordingly to the stately blonde Senator. Diana Sydney's always been one of the more outspoken members of the Council. Unfortunately, her ideas and propositions have failed to cast her in a positive light in Bellamy's eyes. She talks just like every other person he's seen on galactic, Empire-sponsored broadcasts — eloquent, full of measured grace, and painfully lacking in any real understanding of what people like him and Raven and Miller go through every single day as they fight this war with bruised, bloody hands.

 

Right now, Senator Sydney's subtly narrowed eyes are fixed on Clarke Griffin, lips pinched and pursed like she's watching a dirty Wookiee track in mud all over her freshly vacuumed carpet.

 

"They're not going to believe her," Bellamy realises out loud. His gaze roves slowly over the roomful of quibbling senators and commanders and representatives. "They don't _want_ to believe her. And even if they do, they won't actually _do_ anything about it."

 

"What chance do we have against a planet killer?" Miller wonders.

 

"A very, very small one, if we fight," Raven observes.

 

Bellamy's gaze cuts sideways to them. "And if we don't?"

 

For a long moment, the three of them are suspended in silent understanding.

 

Miller sighs, his outward facade of resignation already betrayed by the growing light of incitement in his eyes. "I'll go get the others."

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**ALLIANCE HEADQUARTERS — MAIN HANGAR**

 

It's another two hours before the Council meeting finally lets out.

 

It's just enough time for Bellamy to gather the people he needs, and make it to the hangar bay where he finds Clarke, talking quietly with Monty and Jasper.

 

He strides towards her, steady and purposeful. He catches Jasper gesturing indicatively towards him, and she turns accordingly to face him, already squaring up like she's readying for a fight.

 

One look at her expression tells him all he needs to know. "They didn't believe you."

 

"Don't miss a thing, do you," she shoots back, but it's half-hearted at best, lacking all of the fiery, flinting spark that he's grown inexplicably used to. She glances past him, at the small troop gathered a few feet away. Her brows draw together in a small frown, expectant but defiant. "You here to arrest me?"

 

He blinks in surprise, noting the way she shifts ever so slightly to place herself between him and the wide-eyed duo behind her. _Combative,_ he recalls wryly.

 

"Actually," he says, "we're here to help."

 

She stares at him, her eyes flicking back and forth as they search his furiously, the rest of her frozen still.

 

"My pain doesn't make up for yours," he says slowly, making sure to hold her gaze. "And yours doesn't make me feel any better about mine." He takes a deep breath; takes heart from the fresh air, the taste of metal and earth that fills his lungs. "Look, I don't know about you, but I don't want to spend another second of this war trying to make up for the things that can't be fixed. And I have a feeling you're done trying to reason with people who can't see past their own fear, too. So maybe, just maybe — _together_ , we can save a lot of people out there from suffering the way we both have."

 

The hard glint in her eyes softens then. She opens her mouth, and then closes it. Her gaze flicks past him to the group of rebels still waiting behind him.

 

Finally, she swallows, her eyes sliding back to him. "You give all of them that speech too?"

 

"Actually," Raven calls, stepping forward from the group, "everyone here just kind of has this _thing_ for Bellamy."

 

Miller nods, stepping up beside her. "Yeah. It's called _trust_."

 

Raven looks at him, wrinkling her nose. "Oh. Wait, _really_? I just kinda thought he has good hair."

 

Soft snickers and chuckles emit from the group, along with an enthusiastic _'yeah, Cap!'_ from someone in the back.

 

Bellamy shakes his head at them, before turning back to Clarke, one brow raised expectantly.

 

She draws a deep breath, her gaze roving over the group before swinging round to Monty and Jasper. In almost perfect sync, they each give her an encouraging smile and a nod — almost like they'd _rehearsed_ it.

 

Her gaze finally returns to Bellamy, a hint of doubt still clouded over the otherwise clear blue of her eyes. "You're not gonna get any signed orders from Kane for this one," she warns.

 

He levels a steady look at her. "And I don't need a signed order to tell me what I believe. Besides," he adds, "you're out of your mind if you think we're letting you do this alone."

 

She seems particularly struck by that, almost reeling backwards. Even so, her eyes remain firmly locked on his, irises lit aflame as if seeing him for the first time.

 

After a long moment, she nods, no more than a slight dip of her chin. "All right." She takes another deep breath, nods again. Her lips curve with a smile — it's small, but it's definitely _there_.

 

"All right," she repeats, looking up at him. "Together."

 

"This," Jasper Jordan breathes, flight goggles slipping down on his head, "is so damn _badass_."

 

 

 

 

Things move quickly after that, even for a crew as experienced and efficient as Bellamy's.

 

The two dozen or so people gathered during the Council meeting definitely help with speeding the process along. Two of their added number, Harper and Monroe, take charge of sneaking out a bunch of weapons and gear from inventory. Between Raven and Miller, the cargo shuttle is ready to go within all of fifteen minutes.

 

While the rest load up the ship with whatever supplies they can get their hands on, the six of them gather in a small circle behind the shuttle, out of view of anyone who might be watching from the main hangar.

 

"Assuming Scarif is the Death Star's main base of operations, we're probably looking at some serious defense activity," Bellamy says.

 

"Starting with a shield," Raven adds, shaking her head. "It always starts with a shield."

 

Miller frowns. "So… alternative points of entry?"

 

"The shield covers the entire planet," Jasper says suddenly, his syllables ringing clearer than usual. "There's only one entry gate, and we're going to need an access code to get through that."

 

"Great," Bellamy says grimly, exchanging a look with Clarke.

 

"No problem," Monty says with a light shrug. "The shuttle should have one."

 

Four heads whip round to stare at him.

 

"Which shuttle?" Raven demands. She slaps a palm to the hull of the stolen ship currently being loaded with stolen (well, _borrowed_ ) weapons and gear. " _This_ shuttle?"

 

"Yep," he confirms brightly. His face falls a little. "Well. Assuming it hasn't already been reported stolen."

 

Silence descends upon the group. There _is_ a decent chance every Imperial staffer in the Eadu facility had been distracted in the chaos and mayhem of the X-wing attack. All the same, it's not like Jasper and Monty had been especially _subtle_ about stealing it.

 

"Is there any way to _test_ that?" Bellamy asks, brows furrowed.

 

Jasper makes a _'pfft'_ sound, lips pursed in consideration. "Well, we could just approach the entry gate, give them the code and see if it opens for us or not."

 

"Cool," Miller says tightly. "So either we make it through, or we all get turned to space ash by a wall of pure energy."

 

"That's not what 'test' means, by the way," Raven informs the duo, one hand propped on her hip.

 

"It'll work," Clarke says firmly. She nods, almost like she's telling _herself_ , before lifting her head to look at each of them, her eyes lingering on Bellamy. "It has to."

 

"Hey, Cap!"

 

They all turn towards the back of the ship, where Harper is waiting.

 

She cocks her head towards the lowered ramp. "All ready to go, sir."

 

Bellamy nods, and turning back to the group once Harper disappears up the ramp.

 

"All right," he says, glancing round at them. His gaze snags on Clarke. "Let's go."

 

 

 

* * *

 

  

 

**EN ROUTE TO SCARIF**

 

The ride to Scarif isn't _long_ , by any means.

 

All the same, it feels like centuries to Bellamy — centuries that pass within the blink of an eye. All too soon and not soon enough, they're pulling out of hyperspace, the tropical system of Scarif looming up in the viewport.

 

"How many times have you guys been down here?" he asks, leaning over the back of Jasper's chair. The lanky boy's taken over for Miller, while Monty hovers behind Raven, murmuring quiet instructions in a shorthand only she and Jasper seem to be able to understand.

 

Jasper's thin shoulders lift in a shrug. "Four? Five? Not many." He flicks a switch, before moving to adjust a lever. "Enough to know that what we're doing here is basically suicide."

 

"Then again," Monty pipes up, his idle tone marred by an unmistakable tremble of fear, "pretty much _everything_ we've done as a group so far _should_ have been suicide."

 

" _Basically_ ," Raven echoes with a snort, exchanging a wry look with Bellamy. She narrows a curious glance at Jasper, one brow raised. "Say," she begins breezily, "just out of curiosity — and also because we're all probably about to die anyway — why'd you guys defect?"

 

The two former Imperial pilots exchange a weighted look.

 

"It's more about why we joined, I guess," Monty says at last. "We thought we'd be helping others. Building a better Empire for everyone in the galaxy and all that."

 

"Huh," Bellamy says, under his breath. It's not cynical. He looks at Jasper. "So what made you leave?"

 

Jasper shrugs, eyes still trained on the viewport. "Someone showed us that the Empire isn't _for_ everyone in the galaxy."

 

 _Jake Griffin,_ Bellamy realises. From the uncharacteristically arrested expression on Raven's face, she's realised it too.

 

She nods, one brow raised. "You know, the Alliance isn't exactly the most unselfish organisation either."

 

Monty cocks his head. "We know. But that's not a question of fundamentals. It's just… lost its way a little."

 

Bellamy's gaze cuts to him. "And you think doing this is going to show it the way back?"

 

Monty looks at him. "Jake Griffin didn't just convince me and Jasper. He convinced Clarke. And then Clarke convinced you. And you," he adds, glancing at Raven. "And Miller." He blinks, eyes flashing resolutely as they flick back to Bellamy. "Every person in this ship right now? They're all here because _you_ showed _them_."

 

Bellamy shifts his weight from one foot to the other, suddenly hyper-aware of Raven and Jasper's attention focused on him as well. "They're here because they want to do the right thing," he says gruffly, dismissively. "It's not that deep."

 

Jasper cranes his head around.

 

"They're here," he says, blinking up at Bellamy from underneath his flight goggles, "because _you_ want to do the right thing."

 

 

 

 

 _It's not that deep,_ Bellamy repeats to himself insistently as he heads out of the cockpit.

 

But then again, he's not so sure.

 

Jasper shouldn't have survived Thelonious Jaha's brutal imprisonment, but he did. Monty shouldn't have managed to avoid capture from both the Empire and Jaha's soldiers, but he did. Bellamy shouldn't have run straight towards an oncoming X-wing attack to save Clarke, but he did. Clarke shouldn't have survived the attack itself, but she did. Raven and Miller shouldn't have been able to steal away the cargo shuttle they're currently in, but they did.

 

All five of them shouldn't have escaped the destruction of Jedha City, but they did. All five of them shouldn't have been able to save each other as many times as they did in the span of a few short days, but they did.

 

So many improbable feats accomplished. So many seemingly insurmountable odds stacked against them, overturned.

 

Just like the cargo shuttle's access code _shouldn't_ have worked — but it _did._

 

It seems that ever since they'd first stumbled upon Clarke Griffin, their little hodgepodge group has been doing nothing but pulling off a series of small but impossible achievements, one after the other.

 

Maybe this is what hope feels like, Bellamy thinks as he starts down the ladder towards the main cabin where his comrades await, preparing themselves for what is very likely to be the last fight of their war-ravaged lives. The flame passes from one person, to another, and another, until the whole forest is set ablaze.

 

Maybe, Bellamy thinks as he steps off the last rung and turns to meet Clarke Griffin's determined face, her entire posture tense with resolute intention, maybe this isn't just the fight worth dying for.

 

Maybe it's the one that's worth _living_ for, too.

 

But he doesn't say any of that. Instead, he looks at her, and says, "Landing, five minutes."

 

"That guy promoted me," she says for a response, her tone almost accusatory as she jabs a vaguely irritable thumb over her shoulder. "He said my motivational speech would be _'fucking boring'_ if he didn't."

 

Bellamy's gaze follows the direction of her thumb. When he sees the individual she's pointing out, he shakes his head at the slender form slouched against the wall, its head of dirty brown hair bent over a handheld grenade. "Damn it, Murphy."

 

Murphy shrugs without even looking up from his work, unapologetic.

 

Clarke's expression twists with a slight grimace. "Does this mean I actually _have_ to give a motivational speech now?"

 

"All sergeants do!" a voice drawls lazily behind her.

 

Bellamy doesn't even bother looking at its source. "Shut up, Murphy," he orders, keeping his eyes on Clarke.

 

He searches her eyes, but he really doesn't have to. The truth is right there, staring him in the face — the same way it's been ever since the first second he laid eyes on Clarke Griffin.

 

"Well," he says, allowing his mouth to curve up in a small smile, "luckily for you, I happen to know a thing or two about motivational speeches."

 

She returns his smile with one of her own — and he's struck by how much the slight movement changes her entire face. It's almost like she becomes someone else entirely; someone who hasn't spent their whole life scrabbling through piles of dirt and ash, looking for a reason to fight, to stay, to leave, to _live_.

 

Someone with _purpose_. Someone with _passion_.

 

With a nod, they both turn to face their little army.

 

Maybe they _will_ die today.

 

Maybe this is it, the hour in which their chances finally run out. Maybe this is the last stand any of them will ever make.

 

Then again, maybe it's _not_ the end — but rather, the _beginning_. The beginning of _what,_ exactly? Now, that, Bellamy couldn't possibly say.

 

But he watches as Clarke Griffin takes a deep breath, readying herself to speak — and, all of a sudden, he _knows_.

 

He can't quite explain it. He just _knows,_ with stark, absolute clarity, that on this day, they can move _mountains._ Mountains like the Death Star. Mountains like the entire blasted _Empire_.

 

As long as he's by her side, and she's by his.

 

As long as they're together.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> kudos are always welcome! comments especially so, i'd REALLY love to hear what you think on this one =) 
> 
> icmyi the first time, a gifset for this fic can be found [here](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com/post/156142807286)
> 
> come hang [on tumblr](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com)!


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